


Big Lipped Alligator Moment

by Soncasong



Category: Charité | Charité at War (TV)
Genre: Fortune Telling, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Period-Typical Homophobia, Tarot, World War II, Yrsa is a troll, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soncasong/pseuds/Soncasong
Summary: Yrsa von Leistner, Cancer, sculptor and part time fortune teller, spirited to the Charité to meet a man from her dreams.
Relationships: Otto Marquardt/Martin Schelling
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Big Lipped Alligator Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Do you guys remember that artist lady that randomly popped up in episode six in the middle of a siege to make a freaking bust? That was the singular weirdest thing I've ever seen in a TV show. So of course I latched on to the character and wrote a whole fic about her interacting with the cast. Apparently she was an actual sculptor and made a bust of Sauerbruch at the end of the war.

Yrsa von Leistner was a cancer. Which explained a lot. The tendency to smother, the acute awareness of other people’s problems, the aptitude for gossip. Nevertheless, Yrsa was currently on a train, one of the few trains still operating, to Berlin, where she was going to meet a man she saw in a dream.

All of her logical faculties were screaming at Yrsa to abort this madman’s endeavor, to which she happily replied that she was a madwoman, not a madman, and that she made sure to pack all the necessities. Her tarot cards, her ouija board, enough star charts to last until the end of the year for every sign of the zodiac and Betelgeuse, and, most important of all, more than enough clay for a bust.

A flurry of propaganda flitted by the train car, one fluttering to her lap. An Allied pamphlet, claiming the German defeat will come in less than a month. This will not do. That meant there’s hardly a week left for her to sculpt Sauerbruch, if that.

She looked up at the ceiling of the train and silently wished the pilot luck on any mathematical endeavors. He was going to need it.

The Allied propaganda was always wrong. They tended to overestimate when it came to German surrender. 

* * *

It took Yrsa half a heartbeat to be charmed by the nurse with the wooden leg. He must be a Pisces, she had a natural affinity for them. Never cared much for Aries, though. 

He appreciated the arts, that much was clear. The smile on his face as he led Yrsa to her quarry was acutely tenuous, definitely a little rusty from disuse. People did not have much to smile for these days, she could not blame him. It was not a love smile, though. Those grooves were worn deeper into the other places on his skin.

"Martin, is it not?" She asked, "You do look like a Martin."

He blinked in surprise. Ah, she was right.

"Yes. Martin Schelling. Miss Leistner, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse our lack of space."

He gestured to some building in the distance where she could stay. But Yrsa was more interested in reading his aura. He was fascinating, missing a limb but seeming more whole than almost every person she has met. 

"Mister Schelling. Is there someone you love?" She asked. The thing practically radiated off of him. It must be comforting, during these times. But surely a source of worry, as well, the metaphorical double-edged sword. She could not say she was particularly envious of his situation. 

His eyes widened. It was just a flash, but Yrsa saw them flicker up to the ruined rooftop of a nearby building.

"Over there, then? Hiding, huh. Makes sense… You are a little tense."

She patted him on the shoulder, trying to show that she meant no harm, and almost keeled over from the rush of masculine energy. 

"A man," Yrsa said in a low voice. Even she was aware of the dangers.

Martin moved up close to her face and hissed, "I don't know what you're trying to get at, but not a wo-"

Yrsa gently took his palm in her hand, which seemed to shock Martin into silence. She slowly traced her fingers over the lines. The love line ran long and deep, but what were these little dashes towards the middle? Connected directly to the life line too. Fascinating.

"Your love is strong. But there's a bit of ambiguity... Try to keep a piece of him close to you. That should balance fate in your favor."

Yrsa let go of Martin's hand, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips when she saw his incredulous expression. She checked her little wristwatch, which was forever stuck at ten thirty in the evening, the machinery clogged by the hours she spent with her fingers in technology destroying clay. The act always seemed to make people hurry, though. 

"Well? Aren't you going to take me to the professor?"

"Y-yes!" He stammered, turning and leading her down the corridor. 

She would like to meet this man, but she had an inkling that Martin may not enjoy that. Well, that could be an adventure for another day.

* * *

Ferdinand Sauerbruch was just as wonderfully morose in person as he was in her dream. That exquisite melancholy, unlike anything Yrsa has seen before, tugged the world sharply into focus. The perfect subject.

The introductions were customary, the snippy blonde nurse’s rudeness was probably customary, and Yrsa was spirited away to the beautiful lecture hall she had been in earlier, unpacking her clay and chisels. The Charit é reflected the mood of its master, radiating with an uncertain resolve. Yrsa supposed that even when nothing made much sense anymore, surgeons still had to operate.

Sauerbruch entered a few moments later, a tight smile across his lips, “I don’t have too much time. God knows when another cart full of injured is wheeled in.”

“I know,” Yrsa said sprightly, “I just need to make some primary shapes.”

She worked in silence, appreciating the crease in his brows and the way his eyes were so downcast. Unsure. Sculpting Sauerbruch was less like sculpting a subject and more like sculpting a colleague. He had all the morose sensibility of a creative.

“Surgeons are artists, after all,” She said.

“Come again?”

“You have that… je ne sais quoi,” Yrsa gestured vaguely as she carved out a chin, “That spirit of tortured genius. I think that’s the thing that called me here.”

Sauerbruch laughed, short and dry, “If artists painted with blood, then maybe yes.”

Yrsa pondered his statement, “Well, you are right. So. Is anything the matter?”

“Everything,” Sauerbruch sighed.

“Poetic,” Yrsa said lightly. She brought the chisel up to her lips, tilting her head this way and that, before carving a deeper crease into the Sauerbruch-shaped blob’s forehead, “There we go.”

She looked up at him and smiled, “Everything is always mattering, professor. That’s why you’re a surgeon, isn’t it? Because everything matters to you.”

His eyebrows shot up his forehead, threatening to become his new hairline. Yrsa gave herself a mental pat on the back. She was particularly proud of that last observation, even if her parents always bemoaned her lack of wisdom. She was wise when it counted.

“I guess so. There’s many things to worry about, isn’t it?” the doctor said quietly, “My family, the patients, the staff, all of those people out there trying to get food on the table while bombs and bullets rain down around us. It’s madness, isn’t-”

“Professor Sauerbruch?” The same snippy nurse from before, blonde hair somehow primly pulled into a coiff, popped open the door. Her mouth hardened into a thin line at the sight of Yrsa. Ah, another gentile for the artistic faith. The nurse turned to professor Sauerbruch.

“Friedrichshain was hit hard. There’s an influx of patients-”

“Right, right, I got it, I have to go,” Sauerbruch, bless his heart, did not seem to have much patience for this nurse either. He nodded before standing up to leave.

Yrsa smiled softly at the amorphous bust in her hands as his footsteps retreated, “I was wrong. Not everything matters to you. Although I do hope you’d take the time to take care of yourself, professor.”

* * *

Yrsa should have known she would have to deal with that nurse again. Especially today. She never liked Thursdays, and this Thursday just so happened to be the thirteenth of the month. She really should have listened to her instincts and faked illness. Although, she supposed, that was probably in bad taste at a hospital. And ineffective.

She was gathering her tools back into their respective bags, another session with professor Sauerbruch cut short by an emergency. They never had a session that did not end early. They never will, but she had already factored that in. She was almost done when the clack of heavy Mary Janes alerted her to a presence at the door. 

She knew it was the nurse before the condescending harumph even left the other woman’s mouth. 

“Why are you still here?” the nurse sniffed. Definitely an Aries. 

“I can’t leave the place a mess, can’t I?” Yrsa said, tone a little short for her liking. 

The nurse inched closer, self-righteous malice rolling off her in waaves, “You’re just a freeloader looking for a roof over your head. Go do something productive and help the war effort instead of sticking your hands in mud all day.”

Yrsa rolled her eyes and resumed her packing, “Blind as a bat, I see…” she muttered under her breath. The nurse’s hand shot out, grip tight around Yrsa’s wrist. So she was one of them, still clinging on to the fervor of that madman. Yrsa was far too intimate with those of that ilk for her own personal liking. 

“Excuse me,” Yrsa said pointedly, “I can’t possibly tidy up if you’re holding my hand.”

The sound of a familiar uneven gait interrupted whatever vitriol the nurse was going to spit at her. Martin Schelling, the kind nurse with the secret lover, saving her from an unwanted headache. Yrsa smiled. The man was always cordial whenever they passed each other in the hallways, even helping her trade for a new hammer on the black market after her old one cracked straight down the middle.

“Ah, Christel? Yrsa? Am I bothering you?” he said, eyebrows raised, “I just needed to grab some medicine from the cabinets.”

The nurse - Christel - dropped Yrsa’s wrist, leaving an angry red mark where her fingers had been. Her lower jaw was taut, eyes hard, barely acknowledging the other man with a curt nod. Yrsa smiled to herself, only mildly guilty that she was enjoying the other woman’s discomfort. Mildly, of course. 

“You’re not bothering me at all,” Yrsa reassured the other man. He nodded and trod over to the cabinets, grabbing a handful of some bottles Yrsa could never hope to understand.

“I’ll see you around.”

“Likewise, Martin Schelling,” Yrsa nodded. She was almost all packed up, her bags filled and fitted neatly underneath her vaguely Sauerbruch shaped mass. Nurse Christel was stock still, not saying a word or looking at either of them. Martin shrugged and left. Yrsa made to follow, wheeling her cart with her.

“Wait,” Christel called. Yrsa turned around. She may not like the woman, but she was raised properly, with three square meals a day and an excellent education, so she had manners. Unlike the other occupant of the room. 

“Do you know what that man is?” the nurse hissed. Yrsa rolled her eyes.

“Who cares?” she shrugged, Christel’s shocked expression was all too predictable. She could use a little creativity. 

“You’re rather pretty, you know,” Yrsa said, smugly grinning at the nurse’s scandalized expression. Much too predictable, “Unfortunately, it’s only skin deep. Goodbye.”

She turned and left, not bothering to witness the other woman’s reaction. Yrsa could probably act it out in her own mind anyways. She was definitely the better actress.

* * *

An Arctic Blue butterfly, so far from its mountain home, had fluttered into the hospital grounds. Yrsa had to follow it, naturally. It had to have come down for a purpose, something so beautiful and delicate in the midst of such violence. Perhaps it was trying to show them something. The other occupants of the hospital would probably not think anything of it. It was a blessing that Yrsa was not just a simple occupant of the hospital. 

She trailed after the little thing as it disappeared into a building she knew to be almost abandoned. Apparently, it was a dormitory for the staff of the hospital until an air raid destroyed part of the roof. She had heard about it from Martin, how that day set off the most unfortunate chain of events. The nurse had opened up to her a little, but Yrsa had an inkling that the man was desperate for company. Yrsa may not be the most companionable woman in Germany, but she could make an effort for another lonely soul. 

She clambered over the rubble, careful not to make too much noise. Yrsa had a strange sense that she should keep quiet, even though what she was doing was not against any rules she was aware of. Maybe she wanted a sense of adventure, although the world was presently akin to one big, wholly unwelcome adventure.

She passed room after room devoid of life, the ghost of their previous occupants still haunting the spaces. She paused at one, a quaint little affair. Under the layers of dirt and gravel, she could make out a simple, regimented sort of domesticity. The trace of love lingered over the room. She dragged a finger over the table, suddenly overtaken by the faint smell of bread and marmalade and the quiet afterimage of laughter. Yrsa smiled. This must have been Martin’s room. The man he loved probably spent a lot of time here, imprinting their essence into the walls

She understood that well. Rooms tended to get sentimental when they were occupied by especially kindhearted owners. This one probably missed its occupants a great deal. 

The butterfly was still there when she reentered the hallway, as if it was waiting for Yrsa. Ah, how polite. Yrsa appreciated politeness, something sorely lacking in too many inhabitants of this world. It flitted into a room at the far end of the hall. Yrsa followed. 

The room was empty, lined with shelves dusted over with disuse. A storeroom, once? Yrsa looked around. The butterfly had disappeared. She sighed, disappointed. It was a rude one after all, not even bothering with a goodbye. Perchance that butterfly was a sign from the universe, but the universe truly loved to play with her emotions. She stood and waited. Hello, universe?

Nothing. How impolite.

As Yrsa turned to leave, the most atrocious singing she had ever heard rang loud and grating from above her head. She winced and turned at the sound. It was a man’s voice, singing a heavily accented version of some American jazz number, coming from a space between the roof and the rafters. There must be a space up there, some sort of attic. Yrsa looked around, struggling to shove the tuneless bellowing assaulting her earlobes into a very heavy, very soundproof mental vault, before settling her eyes on a worn ladder tucked away on top of one of the rafters. She pulled it down, climbed, and found a door cleverly concealed by used planks of wood. There was something here after all, she was right to have followed that butterfly. Thank you universe. 

Yrsa slid open the door. The singing stopped, thankfully, and a voice sounded from within the dimly lit space.

“Anni? You’re back so soon, did you forget something?”

“Hello there.”

There was the sound of something clattering to the ground. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could make out the shape of a man, clutching a small child in his arms, eyes blown wide with fear. A bottle lay at his feet, the contents on the floor. She could see his breathing quicken, see the fear in his eyes.

“H-how did you?”

Yrsa took a step forward, hands up and placating, plucking a memory from the recesses of her mind. Martin Schelling, eyes flicking up to a building with a ruined roof, sweat running down his forehead. How could she have forgotten.

“So I finally get to meet you,” Yrsa said softly, “You’re the one, aren’t you? The one Martin Schelling loves.”

The man’s face went white. He leapt backwards, spectacularly crashing into the wall behind him. His eyes darted to and fro, from Yrsa to the opened door to a nearby window, as if he was debating if he should run or if he should bite the bullet and end it all himself. What a world they both lived in, for a man to be filled with so much fear with just a simple hello. 

She tried again, “My name is Yrsa von Leistner. I’m a sculptor. I’m not here to hurt you, please don’t worry,” she smiled at the baby in his arms, a little dazed at her guardian’s actions, “And who is this little darling?”

“Please, I-” he said, voice shaking, “I’m… You’re not going to hurt Martin?”

“Why would I do that?” Yrsa said, huffing. She was never a patient woman, “Come, now, let’s have ourselves a proper introduction. It’s exhausting to keep thinking of you as Martin Schelling’s paramour in my head. Surely you have a name, at least?”

“Otto, Otto Marquardt.”

She glanced over at the toddler in his arms, and he sighed, “And this is Karin. My niece.”

He approached her cautiously. There was the glint of murder in his eye, a cold, glazed over shine of a man forced to throw his humanity away to preserve himself. A soldier. Yrsa found that kind of gaze permanent, a parting gift from the front to its veterans. An atrocious gift.

“How’d you find us?”

“I followed a butterfly,” she answered. The way his mouth dropped to the floor was almost comical. Yrsa wished she had the talent to sketch the moment and immortalize it forever, or the time to sculpt a piece of Otto’s face. Perhaps as a gift to Martin. 

“Close your mouth before the butterfly finds its way in there, Otto,” she tutted. Otto clamped his mouth shut, before cracking into a smile. Ah, sweet progress.

“I’m sorry,” Otto said apologetically. He smiled. He seemed like someone who smiled often. How grand, Martin needed someone like that in his life. 

“There’s no need to be sorry,” Yrsa said, “There’s something wholly unjust about this entire farce, isn’t there?”

She motioned toward the bed, motioning for Otto to sit. He cradled Karin in his arms, softly kissing her forehead, careful not to jostle her as he sat. A gentle man. Yrsa could see why Martin was so enamoured. She pulled up a chair and settled down next to Otto.

“I’m glad.”

“Why?” Otto asked, bouncing Karin in his lap. The little toddler giggled, clapping her hands.

“You’re a good man. I’m glad Martin has you.”

He was quiet, then he smiled softly and shook his head, “No, I’m lucky to have him. I’m… not that good of a person.”

“It’s all relative anyways,” Yrsa gestured vaguely. Good and bad, up and down, everything was just a little bit hazier when their country had fallen so far. Yrsa was rather good at philosophy, exemplary marks from the university, but that was a topic she did not have the mental strength to delve into at the moment. 

She tapped her finger to her chin, gazing pensively at the little girl in Otto’s lap. An adorable child, yet swept away into this attic like something to be ashamed of. How sad. Otto raised an eyebrow. In a flash, he had a protective arm over Karin. 

“Why are you looking at her like that?”

“It’s nothing,” Yrsa said, “She’s a lovely child. Too bad some people can’t see that.”

Otto scoffed, “Too many people.”

“Otto, might I interest you in a Tarot reading?” Yrsa ventured. There was no doubt he would accept, but it was still polite to ask. Otto’s mouth opened wider than she thought a mouth could ever open, making her bite back a laugh, “Stop that, with the jaw dropping, a proper woman always carries her divination tools.”

She reached into the pockets of her dress, forever grateful of the fact that practicality was still a favored style in fashion. It was good practice to express gratitude for the little things, especially when they could vanish in a flash. Although Yrsa was positively certain functional pockets were akin to the wheel, an absolute necessity.

“Alright, what kind of spread do you want? Celtic cross? Love? Personality?” she said, shuffling the cards in her hands. She did not expect Otto to know what any of that meant, of course. Not enough people appreciated the cards anymore. It was a dying art. 

Otto sputtered, “Um, whatever is the most basic?”

She pulled over a nearby chair as a makeshift table and spread her cards on the surface. They were a gift from her mother and her favorite set to use, since they tended to be lighter on beginners and more optimistic towards the future. The set an old lover gave her was mean and pessimistic, and the one that travelling mystic dropped into her pocket had an annoying habit of making people burst into tears. 

“I’ll just give you a simple three card spread then. Past, present, future. Here, help me wash the cards.”

“Wash?”

Ah, right. Tarot virgin. “Mix the cards with me.”

Otto reached out a hand, gliding over the cards. She felt his aura. It had an uncertain energy, almost uncontained, trying to lash out but firmly tethered to an unknown weight. She had a pretty good inkling of what that stabilizing force was. 

“What if your cards say I’m going to die?” Otto asked, only half joking. Yrsa fought the urge to roll her eyes. That was the single most predictable thing anyone could ask a tarot reader. But she will not be rude. She rather liked Martin and Otto so far, it would be in her best interest to not antagonize either. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got a few lives left,” At Otto’s raised eyebrow, Yrsa laughed, “Martin may have let slip about the cat metaphor.”

Otto grinned, “Martin told me a little about you, but he never mentioned that you were this close. Are you trying to steal him from me?”

“As if I had a chance,” Yrsa scoffed, “We’re not too close, he’s actually not that easy to talk to, although I do have a habit of cornering him when he’s particularly tired. I suppose he’s less tightlipped then.”

“Please stop bullying the love of my life.”

She shushed him, shuffling the deck. She asked Otto to cut, then laid out the cards. Past, burn, present, burn, future, the rest to the side. She wondered if the burned cards were offended that they were set aside, or relieved to not have the pressure of a person’s life on their shoulders. She’ll have to ask her cards one day..

“Well,” Yrsa said, eyeing Otto, “Are you ready?”

He shrugged, which was probably a yes. She turned over the first card. 

“This represents your past. Reversed seven of wands. You tried hard to keep up appearances, to keep everyone happy, correct? And this burden weighed you down. Pressure to be the perfect son, the perfect brother. The desire to avoid conflict, to put on a brave, happy face despite all that happened. All that you saw. I’m sure it was hard.”

Otto nodded, “Something like that. I couldn’t keep it up after all.”

“You should never have to.”

She touched his arm reassuringly before flipping over the next card, “This represents your present. Upright nine of swords. There is a sense of helplessness in your current situation. You’re getting caught up in all the things that could go wrong, running the worse scenario over and over in your head. And the worse part is that you can’t really do anything,” she sighed softly, “I think this card applies to all of Germany.”

“Are you reading the country or are you reading me?” Otto quipped, though his voice was a little shaky, “Go on, tell me what’s in my future.”

“This represents your future,” she flipped the card and sighed. Great, she better explain fast before Otto wet himself. Cleaning that up was decidedly not in her job description, “Upright death. Do not be alarmed, Otto. This card represents a shift in the balance of your life, the end of one phase and the beginning of another. It is a very auspicious sign for the future, especially considering the rest of your spread.”

She took his hand in hers and smiled, “This is a good thing, Otto. Change is coming, and it’s coming soon.”

He laughed, a tinkling, happy sound, and Yrsa now knew how easy it was for Martin Schelling to fall in love with this man. 

“You’re crazy, Yrsa.” 

She shrugged. Now tell her something she did not know. 

* * *

There was a gentle tap on her shoulder. Yrsa had just finished assisting with the inventory and was on her way to another sculpting session with Sauerbruch. They were running out of everything, toilet paper brought in to be used as makeshift gauzes, brandy and cognac from the staff’s caches to substitute for alcohol. The end was nearing, she could feel it. If only it could magically happen overnight and save them all the unnecessary suffering. She burned a little sage every night, hoping to usher in the Allies.

Yrsa turned and smiled. The woman facing her was petite, pretty in an unassuming sort of way. Yrsa liked her already, there was something inherently comforting about her presence. A Taurus, perhaps, or a Virgo. She could get along with those. 

“Have you seen my… my husband?” the woman asked.

“I’m sorry,” Yrsa said, “I haven’t been here nearly long enough to learn everyone’s names, relationships are out of my depth.” Well, except for Martin and Otto, and Sauerbruch’s strong willed wife, she knew about those relations. There was something about hospitals fostering strong relationships she rather enjoyed. Perhaps she could find a man and sweep him off his feet here. Ah, what a ridiculous thought. 

She extended a hand in greeting, “Yrsa von Leistner.”

“Anni,” the woman replied harriedly, “I’m sorry, I just really need access to the storeroom and my husband has the keys and…”

There was something about the way Anni wrung her hands, the way her eyes were filled with so much worry, that made Yrsa’s heart clench with sympathy. Her hand, still empty in the air, found its way to Anni’s shoulder. There was something strange about this relationship, something inherently off. Yrsa could not sense a strong romantic connection tethering Anni. A broken marriage? She should not press. Tact may not be bred into her character, but she knew how to read a room. 

But there was something else she could ask, “You’re worried about someone.”

Anni’s eyes went wide. Her eyes darted out of the window, towards a certain rooftop, for a split second. Ah, everything made sense. 

“Multiple someones. Let me guess, food situation?” 

“How do you-”

“You probably split the burden with Martin, yes?” Yrsa chanced. Anni’s jaws tightened. She nodded, a little stiffly. So there was a bit of teeth-clenched teamwork in their little partnership.Yrsa could venture a guess why, but Otto and Karin must be important enough to Anni that she has not reported Martin yet. So this Anni had a heart. Yrsa’s initial impression was right, though her impressions were rarely wrong.

“I can help a little. With the food situation,” Yrsa offered, “Three people sharing the burden should be easier than two. I rather like Martin. And Otto. And Karin.”

Anni tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her hands traveled to her lab coat, smoothing out the wrinkles. She exhaled slowly, “Alright. But why? Why would you help us?”

“It feels like I’m taking control of something,” Yrsa replied, “Helping, somehow. Taking back my destiny. Especially since this war has left everyone feeling so helpless.”

Anni was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed, “The signs were there. We just ignored them.”

Yrsa nodded, “Right. We did. We did.”

They stood there in silence, somehow finding a kind of camaraderie in their shared guilt. Anni made a sound that was something between a scoff and a sniffle. Yrsa squeezed the other woman’s shoulder and let her arm return to her side. The moment was over, but the connection was there. It was pleasant, finding another person who understood that shame. 

“I’ll come by later with some provisions. I have a jar of marmalade stowed away for special occasions. I think Otto deserves a treat.”

“Thank you, Yrsa. For helping my brother and daughter.”

Ah, so that was why she cared so much about Otto and Karin. Yrsa did suspect it. The family resemblance was there. The same stubborn set of jaws as Otto. The same swooping eyebrows of Karin. 

“Of course, Anni,” Yrsa replied, “How could I do anything else?”

* * *

Anni’s husband made an appearance in her life a few days later. Stormy, brooding. Conflicted. He bumped into her while she was on her way to Otto with a load of food, the bread and formula spilling from her pack. The stench of death surrounded him.

“Who is this for?” he asked.

“I’m helping a friend who had twins,” she lied easily, “She’s having trouble getting enough rations to take care of both of them.”

“That’s against the rules,” he said. Yrsa wanted to roll her eyes. Another one of those who followed along blindly. She was ashamed to have been one once, but at least she could sense the note of hesitation in his voice. 

He might be repenting, but with the war nearing its end, everyone was a repenter. Hard to separate the enlightened and the cowardly, but Yrsa was gracious. She’ll give this doctor the benefit of the doubt. 

“When have the rules done us any good?” Yrsa said quietly, “You’re the other Doctor Waldhausen, no? Your wife has pointed you out to me a few times.”

“So you’ve met Anni,” he said curtly, grip still tight on her supplies. The supplies that needed to go to his child, that he should have been responsible for in the first place. Yrsa felt her face get hotter as she looked at Doctor Waldhausen’s self-righteous face. How she wanted to wipe the ground with that smirk, polish her boots and crystals. Grace and tact be damned, Yrsa was angry.

“Shame about your daughter,” Yrsa hissed, taking advantage of his surprise to yank the pack away. 

She left the stunned doctor in the hallway, strutting away, pausing only to throw one last retort over her shoulder, “Now’s not too late to change your mind. Though I doubt you’ll be doing it for the right reasons.”

She let the satisfaction settle in her soul as her shoes hit the tiled hallways.

* * *

It was almost over. Her sculpture, her time at the Charité, the war. Yrsa knocked lightly on the office door, ready to report her progress to the professor. She would miss him and his creased forehead, his creative sensibility. A sculptor of bodies. She hoped they would meet again, but her heart knew that this would be farewell. That was fine, farewells were inevitable. 

A woman’s voice answered, “Who is it?”

“Yrsa von Leistner,” she replied. 

“Come in.”

She obliged, stepping into the study. Margot Sauerbruch was an intimidating woman. She sat on the arm of a chair, legs elegantly crossed with a cigarette in hand. She gave Yrsa a quick once over before nodding. The drain of the past few weeks showed on her sagging shoulders and baggy eyes. A true Leo, powering through to the end.

“Were you looking for my husband?”

Yrsa nodded, “Just to report on my progress. Nothing else going on between us, I assure you.” 

“Don’t worry,” Margot laughed, “I’m very confident in my ability to keep my husband’s attention. So, how are you doing?”

“The sculpture is almost finished,” Yrsa replied, “As is my time here. I just wanted to let the professor know I’ve made much more progress between our sessions than I anticipated. He’ll be a free man soon.”

Margot sighed, “He’ll need all the time he has, what with the Russians at our gates.”

“We’ll all be free soon,” Yrsa said confidently. Her tea leaves have been rather auspicious all week, and she was taking care to avoid combing her hair on Tuesdays, just to make sure luck was on her side. She was feeling confident again, something she has not felt in a long time. Hope was on the horizon, just past the darkness.

“You’re a strange one, Yrsa von Leistner,” Margot said, puffing on her cigarette.

“Thank you.”

She turned to leave, but something compelled her to turn and face the other woman. They were alike in many ways. Both trying their best in this war to help others, both just a little too different for the Nazi’s comfort. Yrsa hoped that parallel universes were real, because she would have loved to know this woman better. 

“I feel like we could’ve been close,” Yrsa said sadly, “If things turned out different.”

Margot blew out a cloud of smoke and smiled, “Yeah, maybe.”

* * *

Yrsa von Leistner bid adieu in a hail of bullets and mortar. She walked on, confident, the sculpture of Ferdinand Sauerbruch leading her way. She saw Doctor Waldhausen scramble for the water pump, trying to dodge the bullets. Ah, so he was still trying to redeem himself. Well, this will be the last she saw of him, so she should wish him the best.

The man gawked at her as she strode confidently into the barrage. There was no need for concern. She had her birthstone at her breast, her rabbit’s foot in her pocket, and a four leafed clover pinned to her hat. She would be fine.

She made it to the train station without a single cut on her stocking, pleased with how uneventful the trek was. Being as conspicuous as possible ended up being the most effective form of stealth, neither Russian nor German willing to shoot down a woman walking with a purpose. 

A few passengers shot Yrsa dirty glances as her sculpture announced its presence in the crowded train, but most were too worn down to care. Yrsa brushed her dress out and looked at the smoky sky. This was it.

The train rolled out of the station, trying its best to outrun the advancing army. Yrsa von Leistner sat primly with her hands tucked in her laps. The passengers around her prayed and cried. She looked straight ahead, a small smile dancing on her lips. The rumble of artillery sounded in the distant, loud and deafening, the trumpets heralding a new age. 

Yrsa could really use a beer right about now. 


End file.
